


Situation Normal: All Fucked Up

by nerdwegian



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: I'M PSYCHIC, M/M, UNINTENTIONAL SPOILERS FOR AGENTS OF SHIELD 1X22, WE'RE PSYCHIC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdwegian/pseuds/nerdwegian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out, when May said they went to ground, she meant it very literally.</p><p>(Originally tumblyfic, but not from a prompt, per se... Please see Author's Notes.)</p><p>Spoilers for Agents of SHIELD 1x22</p>
            </blockquote>





	Situation Normal: All Fucked Up

**Author's Note:**

> After Agents of SHIELD 1x17, "Turn Turn Turn," there was this conversation:
> 
> erindizmo: […] Coulson is hypothetically the highest level SHIELD agent still operating.  
> teslamaple: Director Coulson.  
> selenay936: I welcome our new Coulson-shaped leader. He and Clint need to celebrate on his new SHIELD director desk before Fury demands it back.  
> ralkana: Yes, sir, Guerrilla Director Coulson, sir!
> 
> And then this ficlet was born from that. And after 1x22, it can also be read as a vague post-episode/coda, so. There's that.
> 
> Thanks to Laura for the excellent beta, as always. <3

Turns out, when May said they went to ground, she meant it very literally.

The underground base is dark and damp, and Clint swallows bile in his throat and doesn’t think of Loki. May leads him through several hallways that would seem like a maze to most other people, until they arrive at a battered wooden door. She raps her knuckles on the wood twice before pushing it open, not waiting for an answer.

Clint pauses. His heart skips a beat. Several beats. He draws a breath and clenches his fists and counts to three—and then he follows May through the door.

"Clint," Phil says, voice breaking as he stands up behind his desk. And then he pulls himself together and says, "Agent Barton."

Clint swallows and swallows again, digging his nails into the palms of his hands, so hard he’s almost breaking the skin. “Director Coulson, sir.”

Next to Phil’s desk, May crosses both hands behind her back, oddly formal at parade rest. “Did you need anything else from me, Director Coulson?”

Phil’s eyes flicker sideways, but only briefly, like he doesn’t want to look away from Clint. “No, that’s—that’ll be all. Thank you, Agent May.”

She nods once and heads for the door, but just as she pulls it open, Phil says, “Thank you, Melinda,” with some significance. Part of Clint’s curious, but part of him can’t process what he’s seeing, and he only dimly registers the sound of the door closing behind her.

For several long moments, they just stare at each other, Coulson’s desk feeling like a mile between them.

"Well," Clint eventually gets out, gesturing. "Some operation you’ve got going here. Always said you deserved a promotion."

"Out of necessity, it’s not like there were a lot of candidates left for the position," Phil says quickly, then, "Clint, I—I wanted to—"

"How long have you been, you know, back?" Clint says, because the alternative is to punch Phil in the face so hard he’ll probably cause serious injury.

"A while," Phil says. "Long enough that I wish I could have told you sooner. A lot sooner."

Phil takes a few steps to the side, to walk around the desk and towards Clint, and Clint can’t help it—he physically recoils, moving back to maintain some distance between them, because it’s all too much. He feels sick to his stomach.

"Clint," Phil says again, sounding broken down and beaten and nothing like the Phil Clint remembers.

This is not the world Clint helped almost bring to its knees. This isn’t even the world that existed in the space after that, because at least that world had Natasha and Director Fury and a SHIELD that Clint still believed in. Despite the grief and the distrust and the occasional haze of alcohol, that world had made sense, even when Clint wished it hadn’t.

This new world? This new world has Hydra, and superhumans, and Phil, warm and alive and looking at Clint like he’s in physical pain—and none of it makes any sense at all.

Phil doesn’t even look like Phil anymore. The old Phil—Clint’s Phil—had suits and sunglasses and two hundred dollar silk ties. _This_ Phil is scruffy, five o’clock shadow looking like a permanent fixture on his face, and he wears his shoulder holster in full view. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a band logo Clint can’t make out, it’s so worn, and a leather jacket with a bullet hole in the left sleeve and blood stains at the bottom of the zipper.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Clint doesn’t intend to voice it, but he does, even though it comes out mostly as a whisper. "How are you here?"

"It’s—a very long story," Phil says, and doesn’t look very happy about it. Instead he changes the subject. "I’m glad we found you."

"Yeah," Clint says, wanting to mean it, but not quite there yet. "Been on my own for a while, sir."

"Is this a thing now?" Phil asks carefully, and this time Clint doesn’t flinch back when he approaches. "Are we on _sir_?”

Clint grits his teeth so hard his jaw hurts, and stares hard at the wall as he says, “Well, sir, you outrank me by a lot now, and I figured _sir_ was better than the alternatives.”

"Which were?" Phil prompts. He sounds genuinely curious.

"How about _you bastard_ , or _fuckwad_?”

Phil’s eyes are suspiciously blank when he steps into Clint’s line of sight. “No zombie boyfriend jokes?”

"Jokes would imply I find it funny," Clint says. He’s not sure how he’s managing. The lump in his throat is threatening to choke him.

Phil moves closer, all the way into Clint’s personal space, slow and tentative, so Clint has every chance to pull away. Clint holds his ground and fights down the swell of panic in his chest, ignores the pounding of his own heart, because through the mess of emotions he’s feeling, there’s still that need to touch, to confirm that this is real.

"Clint," Phil whispers, face inches from Clint’s.

Clint doesn’t realize he’s hugging Phil until his arms are already raised, and then he just goes with it. Moving on instinct, he pushes up against Phil, puts his face into the crook of Phil's neck, and breathes.

"Clint," Phil says again, hugging him back, and Clint has to close his eyes for a moment, because they’re stinging. One of Phil’s hands comes up to Clint’s face, warm and steady against his chin, but Clint still can’t look.

The world might be new and Phil might not be the same, but he still kisses the same. Deep, slow kisses that make something unfurl and relax inside of Clint, like a dam breaking, or like releasing an arrow from his bow. When they break apart and Clint manages to get his eyes open, he feels like he can finally breathe again.

Phil turns them around and pushes at Clint until his thighs hit Phil’s desk, and then he presses in between Clint’s legs. “I missed you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession, which in and of itself is odd coming from Phil.

"Bet I missed you more," Clint mumbles back. It’s dumb, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He sits down on Phil’s desk, and it places him just low enough that he has to angle his head the slightest bit upwards to continue looking into Phil’s face, but he doesn’t mind.

"No bet," Phil says. There’s a careful smile growing on his face, as the tension and the anger and the hurt slowly bleeds from the space between them, like poison from a wound.

"Bet this desk can take our weight," Clint says. If it’s lacking a little in gusto, Phil doesn’t call him on it. Besides, he’s only half kidding.

Above him, Phil’s smiling for real now. “I bet you’re right.”

And Clint leans in close and says into Phil’s chest, “Phil,” and lets Phil push him down onto the desk.

End.


End file.
